The 1930s Great Depression rendered a substantial portion of the Welsh population jobless. However, Dylan Marlais Thomas wasn’t one of them. At seventeen, The South Wales Daily Post employed him as a copyboy, then as a junior reporter.

His reporting left much to be desired, though. He found all events in town much the same, provided he left out the list of attendees, which he did. The time he saved by avoiding actual work was spent ‘gathering more beer in his gut than news in his head’.

At this time, he chummed up with a small provincial circle of talented writers who met twice a week at the home of a local socialist editor. Together, they wrote and ‘threatened the annihilation of the ruling classes over sandwiches and blancmange.’ This group encouraged Dylan’s poetic ambitions.

Dylan Thomas’ Parents

The young poet’s mother, Florence Thomas, was a generous, sociable worshipper at chapel; ‘stout, safe, confident, and buried in her errands’. However anarchic her son would become; he would always feel shame when he denied his Puritan upbringing and his appreciation of the niceties of women.

Dylan’s father, David John Thomas, instilled in his infant son a love of language. The child delighted in nursery rhymes and loved words for their sounds before he could understand their meanings. The maturing boy revelled in folk tales, Scottish Ballads, and the rhythms of Bible stories. Even Shakespeare, who was ‘heard, read and near-murdered’ at school, held a magical quality.

The Thomas home boasted volumes in every conceivable place, with books upon books under tables when space on bookshelves and tables was exhausted.

For thirty-seven years, Swansea Grammar’s English master, David John Thomas, taught language and literature with deep conviction. He regularly read poetry to his pupils, his son Dylan among them, and ensured opportunities and resources were readily available for students who wished to further their understanding of the subjects. In his father’s class, Dylan didn’t disappoint, though he failed every other subject at high school.

Thomas Senior was a frustrated poet with a first-class Honours degree in English from the University of Wales. He spurned his railway upbringing, craved middle-class villa respectability and rejected God. And though David Thomas spoke his native Welsh, he refused to teach it to his son or pupils. It represented the parochial in the world he rejected.

Why was Welsh wiped out in the south of Wales?

Thirteenth-century Norman invaders had virtually eradicated the language from Pembrokeshire to the English borders. Then the Industrial Revolution brought English into the mines and factories, ultimately sealing its place as the common language. So, it was not for D J Thomas in his thoroughly modern semi-detached, non-railway, suburban villa, nor, he decided, for his literary son.

Yet Dylan was still hearing Welsh.

‘The great rhythms had rolled over me from the Welsh pulpits’. he said. His own great uncle Gwilym Marlais Thomas was both a preacher and a bard and contributor to Welsh periodicals of mid-Victorian times. David John aspired to be the bard that his uncle had been, but Welsh respectability at the cost of his writing reigned and the baton fell to young Dylan.

The one tradition that survived in industrial Wales was respect for preachers and poets.

It was in the chapels that Dylan heard elegies written by village poets and delivered in an ‘extensive vocabulary and a mastery of diction, rhythm and rhyme’. Dylan Thomas was in awe of preachers and their methods of spreading the terror of God. In his thoughts and heart, he inherited the contradictions of the history of his homeland and those of his own family. ‘He could not spurn God, yet he boasted (in 1933) that God had been deposed years before’ and he had a ‘social face with parlour standards’, but was ‘bawdy and bardic when alone in his bedroom’.

Though compelled to immerse himself in the riches of the English language, this son of Wales imbued his work with the rhythms, phrasings, and metaphors of his birthright, the Celtic Welsh his father rejected.

He remains my favourite poet fifty years after discovering him.

Sources

Sinclair, Andrew, Dylan Thomas-Poet of His People, Michael Joseph Ltd, 1975

https://www.discoverdylanthomas.com/d-j-thomas-man-introduced-dylan-thomas-poetry accessed 11 February 2021

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Each year Regulus Press from Seattle, USA, hosts a worldwide competition for authors. Each competition attracts about a thousand writers from all corners of the earth. The criterium is to write within the first and last lines of a famous piece of literature. I love the challenge and began entering when I discovered the competition the year after its inception. In 2022, for the second time, I received an Honourable Mention. The stories of those who achieve an HM do not make it into the anthology with the winners, but the story title and name of the author appear in the book under a paragraph suggesting readers ‘keep an eye out for these writers. We’re confident you’ll see their work in the future.’ I highly recommend this competition.
You can purchase the anthology at https://www.amazon.com/dp/173609744X

I chose to write Going Down between the lines of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, MS. Found in a Bottle (as opposed to one of the other pieces chosen by Regulus Press in 2022). The competition requires the lines as written by their author, thus the comma I would put after ‘family’ in the first line is not there, because Poe left it out.

Going Down

Of my country and of my family I have little to say.
It’s enough to tell you that my parents were doctors, and much to their disappointment, I had no desire to join them in that noble profession. My elder brother had become a doctor. He was their pride.

“Away with you then,” my mother said to me in her Doric brogue. “And mark my words, it’ll be the last of my tattie scones you’ll be getting if you walk out that door.”

It was, and I did.

The smell of coal smoke had always drawn me. It spoke to me of warmth, of security, and employment. That thought buoyed me as I boarded a train to Glasgow where the North British Locomotive Company was taking on lads. The company had accepted my application to enter an apprenticeship. I was eighteen years old, eager to learn, and determined to work hard.

North British was supplying steam locomotives to multiple countries across the globe.[1] There’d be work for years for diligent men who wanted it.

The NBLC administrative building, designed by the Scottish Railway architect, James Miller, took up a massive footprint on Flemington Street. On its north elevation, crowning the main entry, was the front of a smoke box of a steam locomotive. This was flanked by chains and pulleys, magnificently carved in stone.[2] I was proud to have gained an apprenticeship with a company that occupied such a splendid building.

When my paperwork was completed, a supervising blacksmith joined me. Together we walked over the road to the foundry.

The sheer size of the place was staggering – it was as large as a lake. The heat from the forges hit me like the breath of a desert. I could feel in my chest the rhythmic beating of hammer on anvil. The hissing of hot iron hitting water sizzled in my ears, and I had to move closer to the blacksmith to hear what he was saying.

“Righto, here you are lad,” the smithy, Bill Blythe said, handing me a hammer. “You’re a striker, now, so let’s get striking.”

I developed a good relationship with this man. He became my mentor. Through the din, I paid careful attention to his instructions.

Bill hammered, I hammered, he hammered, I hammered, Bill, me, again and again. The sweat dripped and a sense of worth and purpose enveloped me. I was a tiny part of a massive machine in that Glasgow shed making beautiful locomotives for the world.

“You’re doing well, lad,” Bill said, when we broke for tea.

On the tick of eleven a siren sounded. The massive foundry quietened, and the men ambled to a counter partway down the shed. Tea ladies poured hot tea into enamel mugs. I joined the queue and took a mug.

“The first of many cuppas, Jim, lad if you choose to earn them.”

It was, and I did. I loved my job. But it wasn’t all hard work. Those daily tea-breaks at 11:00 am and 4:00 pm provided many a moment of mirth. I followed the lead of the older apprentices and took in good humour the ribbing the experienced men gave us. In fact, the skilled blokes gave as much to each other as they did to the young lads.

“Who put those bloody frogs in the boiler?”

“Archie Bennett.”

“He knew it was you who hammered on the boiler when he was in it last Tuesday.”

“Did he now? He’ll keep.”

A few days later, Archie lit up a roll-your-own and jumped like a spooked cat. Someone had added something to the ends of his rollies, causing a little explosion when he lit them.

Such mischief was amusing in the working day, but weekend dances at the church hall were more serious matters. Many a match was hatched at a church dance and later sealed at the altar.

Jean Balfour from the magazine kiosk was a looker. Kind and quick-witted, she had a smile for everyone. She didn’t know she made my legs wobbly, but some blokes noticed I was keen on her and dared me to ask her out. So, I did.

We were married within the year, and I felt the luckiest man alive. I was living my best life.

I’d had some contact with my parents over the time I’d been in Glasgow. Christmas cards and birthday cards, but marrying Jean was an opportunity for them to see how well I was doing.

They came down from Aberdeen for the wedding. I could not have been happier with their response to both Jean and to my love for my work.

My wife’s most valued possession was a sewing machine which she put to frequent use. Before moving into my tenement flat, she smartened it up, making curtains and covers for the bed, chairs, and table. She created a joyful haven to come home to and Mum much admired Jean’s handiwork.

Some of the foundry lads lived in our block. There was Cecil (Chalky) Lawson, whose five o’clock shadow was so fair you couldn’t tell he had one, Laurie Oliver, a big bloke with a bigger laugh, and Harold (Sooty) Bowman who showered in the shed, but rarely looked as though he’d ever used water.

Jean befriended Chalky and Laurie’s wives and together, they subsidised our income by making garments out of hand-me-downs bought on sale at St Vincent de Paul. Jean and Susan Oliver drafted patterns from pictures in glossy magazines and the women cut and sewed the fabric into kids’ clothes. They sold them at school fetes and community gatherings. The working men’s kids were out and about in the styles of the public-school kids. Local mothers loved it. Proper Sunday-best outfits at a reasonable price and our wives made a tidy profit.

We’d been married a while when I showed Jean photos of me and Bill Blythe.

“Great bloke, patient, and a good teacher,” I said.

“Oh, Jimmy, you were such a fine-looking lad – and you didn’t know I liked you right from the start. But what’s this? You’re hitting the anvil and not the iron.”

“Aye, well, it keeps up the momentum for the smithy. While I’m hammering, he’s quickly assessing where his next hit should be. The timing is crucial.”

“Ah,” said Jean, “You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot.”

“Aye, that’s it.”

I dodged conscription because I was manufacturing goods for the war effort. My apprenticeship continued and I qualified as a blacksmith four years after I’d started.

It transpired that my parents’ trip to Glasgow was the last holiday for them both before they succumbed to illness within months of each other. Jean and I took the train to Aberdeen for both funerals. Going back sealed my belief I’d done the right thing by leaving. I led a much more exciting life in Glasgow.

It was the turn of my brother, Ralph, to invite us to his wedding when he married a New Zealand girl in 1919.

Ralph and Pamela sold the Aberdeen practice and gave me half of Mum and Dad’s legacy before they sailed off to New Zealand. If my brother, and sister-in-law were going to be blessed with children, Pamela wanted them to be brought up on the Coromandel Peninsula where she’d grown up.

Ralph wrote to me from Tairua in the Coromandel boasting of owning a three-bedroom weatherboard house, having whitebait fritters for tea and Christmas in the warm sunny summer at the seaside.

“Maybe we should look at going to New Zealand too, Jimmy,” Jean said.

“Well, it’s not unrealistic. New Zealand has its own railway workshops now. In fact, they’ve started manufacturing whole locos too. I can write away and enquire.”

Jim smiled as he wrote the letter. This was the second time in his life he’d made a significant decision prompted by the words of a woman.

In the North Island of New Zealand, A & G Price Limited was a large employer in the provincial town of Thames. A company administrator replied to Jim suggesting they were open to employing competent blacksmiths if an applicant could furnish them with favourable references.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Jean said, throwing her arms around her husband. “We’re off on a real adventure.”

“Aye, well, there’s a lot of preparation yet.”

Jimmy compiled references, completed application forms, and posted them to NZ. A return letter confirmed there was a job waiting for him in Thames. There were ample rental properties on the market, and he had a guarantee of time to settle in before starting work.

The inheritance from Jimmy’s parents, and a confirmation of paid work on their arrival in NZ, ensured the couple could afford a fare better than the cheapest passage. Passengers paying their own way could travel in a ‘second’ cabin below the poop deck, rather than in the low-ceilinged space with tiered bunks that accommodated two hundred and fifty people below the main deck in steerage.[3] However, the weather could still cause discomfort and it frequently did.

“Well, that was six weeks I wouldn’t care to regularly repeat;” Jean said when they were in sight of land.

“No, but look at that?” Jim said as he pointed to a long white cloud above the land mass. “It really is The Land of the Long White Cloud.”

Jean was excited and recognised Ralph and Pam in the welcoming crowd. The family enjoyed a hotel meal before driving to the Coromandel Peninsula. Pam and Ralph’s home in Tairua was thirty miles from Thames. That meant it was essential to find a house immediately for the new arrivals, so Jim didn’t have to commute so far to work.

House hunting wasn’t stressful. There were plenty of rentals on the market. Jim and Jean made a choice quickly.

“I can’t believe the size of the yard. And look at the gardens. The variety of vegetables is astonishing,” Jean said.

While Ralph showed Jim the town, Pam and Jean op-shopped for furniture. In the evenings they cleaned the house from top-to-bottom while, out the back, the men sanded and stained the second-hand furniture. By week’s end Jim and Jean had the bones of a lovely home and Jim had the weekend to rest before starting work on the Monday.

A & G Price was a smaller version of North British, and though it was now manufacturing the locomotives needed for New Zealand’s unstable terrain, North British was still processing orders, too. Two more engines were due to arrive from Scotland in the winter of 1922 aboard the Federal Steamship Navigation Company’s cargo steamer, Wiltshire.

The ship reached NZ but ran aground on June 02 off the coast of Rosalie Bay, Great Barrier Island, just north of the Coromandel. On a black winter’s night, in mountainous seas, and a howling easterly with driving rain, the Wiltshire broke in two. All hands were miraculously saved, but the cargo was lost[4].

Jim was in the pub sharing a pint with the lads when the news of the wreck reached them.

“Shit, I worked on those two locos,” Jim said.

“I hope you were paid at the time, lad.”

“Aye, I was.”

“Let’s drink to that then,” said a smithy.

They raised their glasses. “Down the hatch lads.”

Jimmy mouthed the words, “Heartbreaking to know they’re going down.

[1] Grace’s Guide Ltd, Grace’s Guide to British Industrial History https://www.gracesguide.co.uk/North_British_Locomotive_Co accessed May 16, 2022

[2] Thomas Nugent, North British Locomotive Company architectural detail, digital image onWikimedia Commons, File: North British Locomotive Company architectural detail, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:North_British_Locomotive_Company_architectural_detail_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1778344.jpg accessed May 16 2022

[3] Te Ara The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand, Story: The Voyage Out
https://teara.govt.nz/en/the-voyage-out/page-3 accessed 16 May 2022

[4] Newspapers, Marine Casualties, Demise of Vessels Ashore. https://freepages.rootsweb.com/~nzbound/genealogy/wrecks.htm accessed 16 May 2022

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